On this next rotation, they do not meet until Zagreus has reached the hallowed heights of Elysium (though Thanatos has been keeping track of Zagreus' progress through nearly the entire journey, where he can). There, Death finds himself again transfixed by the Prince's effortless display of power, the way he commands mastery over the boons that he wields. How he brings a swift and spectacular end to all shades he encounters. It's almost paradoxical, a dissonance between what Life is and what Zagreus brings (even as his foes seek to siphon the lifeblood from his skin).

The beauty of Life's destruction, the horror of it, always seems to strip Death to the bone.

To behold Zagreus like this always provokes shame, that imp, to tap its hollow-pointed fingers to the back of Thanatos' skull; but it will not be admitted entrance. The will to protect is permanently engraved in the sulci beyond, and these grooves gouged inside him are so deep that every other would-be intruder now seems of negligible consequence, barely a scratch on the skin.

Perhaps he is numbed, from existing too long as loyalty's prisoner.
But in truth, there is a likelier explanation: simple acceptance. For Death has come to understand, through these clandestine dealings, that for there to be any real progress he must aid from the shadows and trust in the process. And he must trust that this process will be worth the gamble. He must trust Zagreus,if only because Zagreus toils to earn this.

Except at this point, with everything such as it is, Thanatos finds himself wishingto protest—or at least, simply to talk about it all. He wishes to talk about Zagreus' journey, his goals, his plans. He wishes to talk about how he be a greater boon to the Prince—where he might better fit into this illicit scheme so that his actions can truly have weight. Yes, this scheme that Death had just decided on a whim that he not only accepts—despite knowing precious little of its finer details—but wants for a role in Zagreus' grand design. In this new purpose he is forging for himself.

He wishes to talk about fairness, and reciprocity, and place. How much all of this affects him, and how if Zagreus is going to accept his help, he deserves to be a part of it in earnest.

He wishes to talk about many more things than just these, if he's honest. Like how much all of this hurts, in a true, corporeal sense—that constant stab-ache approximating the feeling of drowning on the Surface, when Zagreus had called for him last. How it steals the breath from his lungs every time—just as would being submerged again in that violent water, drawn down deep and deeper still, until all consciousness collapses. How even though it's always been a thankless duty, to personify death, he'd had no concept at all for precisely how catastrophic it would feel when his opposing equal, the embodiment of Life, defied that of Death over and over. In new and inventive ways. Ceaselessly.

(But. That can wait, perhaps—just a short while longer. The god of gentle death is nothing if not patient.)

Zagreus clears this chamber, and the one that follows. Thanatos has bided his time; he now readies his hand. The forced choice for progression is Charon versus pom, and Death knows from his reconnaissance that Zagreus has no need to visit his brother, and almost no Obols besides. Of course, there's always the chance that the Prince will just barge in to say hello, and force him to recalculate. This would hardly be out of character. Still, Death lets himself become a shadow, and drifts to where he expects (hopes) Zagreus will go.

In the pom chamber, the fire-and-grass floor breathes deep with anticipation, white flowers gently swaying on a nonexistent breeze. Traces of flames spark to disrupt the scented air, causing the flowers to send up their pollen in protest. The fragrant fuzz agitates Thanatos' nostrils, lingering and refusing to set. The entire place has the feel of an empty stage, the pregnant pause just before the thespians are set to enter: a kind of hushed expectation.

Then—

Movement. Sound. Life, breaching. Death, approaching.

"Zagreus."

"Than!"
The challenge imparts with a series of loud crashes, as exalted ex-warriors and their cursed chariots materialize from the ether. Disposing of the rabble is swift work between them; The Lethe gulps and gurgles and sings their demise, so their souls might forget. At the end, as was at the beginning, there is untouched silence.
Zagreus, face thrilled and eyes wild, bounds up to Thanatos when it is ended, looking as pleased to greet him as with the final score tally (sixteen to twelve in his favor). He takes hold of the proffered centaur heart with a flourish, and cracks a mad, energetic grin. "Came to see me before I pay a visit to Asterius, eh, mate?"
"Indeed," Death affirms. The noncommittal answer is born more of habit than of anything, but it gives him pause. Behind his sternum there is planted the vaguest seed of anxiety, already sprouting its feeble root, gripping soil, ready to infect. No, it will not do; he must not lose hold of this opportunity.

He clears his throat. "I thought we might...talk."

With this, the fire in Zagreus' expression subdues a bit. His face sombers, as though he is slow-tumbling into his own thoughts, retreating into a mode of reflection that has never much suited him. He says nothing, preferring both to question and answer with those mismatched eyes. Thanatos prays the weeds will not take him.

"Look, Zagreus. If I'm going to continue offering you aid like this, I…I'd really like to be kept more abreast of things. I want to know about how things are going with your mother. What you might be planning. If you tell me, then I can…be of greater assistance, perhaps, and it will help me to understand better, so—"

It's here that he croaks, causing the words unspoken to wither and die in his throat as Zagreus openly stares, stone-still, lips slightly parted. Thanatos supposed this counts as a display of restraint. When he sighs, unable to conclude, Zagreus' decidedly dumbstruck demeanor shifts into one stranger, more illusive—half thoughtful, half skeptical.

"Than," he begins. "Er. Don't take this the wrong way, but…do you really want to be privy to all this, all of my misadventures? After everything I put you through, I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if you…well. I am surprised, frankly, that you'd want to know more. I can't think that you'd much approve of my ideas, seeing how they continue to get me—both of us—into trouble, and all...and—!"

(And though he does not say it; and though his lips form not the words; their spirits linger on the blade-point of his tongue, so potent that Death might siphon them from the flesh:

Are you truly not still mad at me?

And one layer beyond:

If I relinquish this trust, as you have unto me...will all be forgiven?)

Not a glimmer remains of the short-lived spark in the Prince's eye, now dispersed like the pollen into open air. Thanatos would find it laughable, had he a preponderance of irony. It never ceases to amaze, just how insensate Zagreus ever is to the world outside his own whims. Even now, having at long last learned that, yes, his machinations do affect others—even now, he must think he is being charitable, in this. Merciful.

If he is even thinking at all.
"I want to hear them," Thanatos says flatly. "I want to hear them all, so that I can help. If I'm going to continue risking my station for you, I intend to be an active party. All right?" He pauses, brief. "You can see that I'm serious about this, I think. After all, despite your best efforts, I am here still."

He doesn't say it, but hopes that his face communicates in a way that fills the empty spaces. I am with you still. I will be going forward.I will be with you before you even think to call my name. (So let me in.)

Zagreus' face foretells inner conflict, and for a moment, Thanatos prepares to be denied again. For his earnest olive branch to be burned in Zagreus' fire, leaving him right back where he always was. In this, he is seized by an urge to take flight, leaving nothing behind but a flash of green light. But the Prince has done nothing to warrant such treatment, and Thanatos is not so cowardly as he once was. And so he stays, tethered by obligation to see this through—or else watch it all come tumbling down.

And just as he feels set to burst wide open, to turn tail and explode into ribbons of darkness, Zagreus' face halts him: fish-eyed and bright, bright red to his temples, with a fluttering mouth full of unspoken words. Those that do come escape soft and slightly stilted, but Zagreus manages what is presumably meant as "Thank you for telling me how you feel, Than" but sounds more like a garbled collection of consonants.

And Thanatos suffers it again: that old, unbidden urge to reach out and draw him closer.

Zagreus, having taken a moment to collect himself, elaborates: "I'll tell you whatever you would like to know."

This statement hangs heavy, denser than air, unable to be taken up by the Elysian breeze. They feel like a promise, one that draws Thanatos in ever closer. Zagreus exhales, then dares to smile. Wanly, a little sardonic. Artificial light and shadow cross his throat, his chest. The flowers scattered about their feet rustle.

Zagreus peers to his left, then right, before gracelessly sinking to the grass underfoot. After he plops down, he pats the plot of green directly beside him, and asks: "How long do you have?"

Thanatos, who never expected to get half this far, answers: "A little while. Start from the beginning."

Zagreus does.


"Than. I've got it."

Thanatos had anticipated Zagreus' compliance to be a short-term solution, a temporary alliance. He had expected time to flow again and Zagreus to forget, to turn selfishly inward and return to his own devices. But instead, Zagreus has made an active and unprompted effort in keeping him updated for the last few revolutions. He's even been trying a playful hand at entertainment—regaling him of Lady Persephone's charm, weaving in colorful bits of description. Trying to spark in Death interest, and memory. He'll show off in this, in the spinning of tales, in the same flashy manner that he once showed off tricks with water and light and flame, when yet they were godlings. Dizzying, dazzling Thanatos with his displays.

(It all has done very little to stifle it. Death's fascination with life itself. With Life, himself.)

Most times, these debriefings bestow an air of good tidings. Perhaps this is because they tend to come fresh off the high of a challenge; or perhaps it is because they have both, without fully realizing, so long thirsted for information that they are desperate to share it. But this time, the air is charged not with cheer, but with an unspecified gravity.

They meet in Tartarus, in the cold fist of this realm's stone heart. Death's challenge had been brief even by prior standards; Zagreus appeared almost transcendental as he took his Blade to wretch after wretch—a warrior of poetry, one worthy of long, loquacious verses. But when this unsung hero approaches Death now, his face is bloodless, alarmingly white.

"What's the matter?" Thanatos asks, rattled.

"I've found it at last," Zagreus says. "A solution. A way to bring Mother back here. A way to have Father see reason."

"Elaborate."

"I snuck into Father's bedchambers," he says. "Oh, and it was exactly as you'd expect, mind you, nearly empty save for rows and rows of those ghastly capes—but then, on his nightstand, I found it. A portrait of Mother, regaled in red laurels. A portrait of his Queen."

"You went into Lord Hades' bedchambers?"

"Yes," Zagreus hisses, drawing out the sound, insolent foot tapping impatient sparks. Embers trailing from them, from the top of his head, burning in his wide, wide eyes. "When Mother hears of it, she'll have no choice but to come back here and reconcile. After Father apologizes, of course. Which he will do, because his love is true, I've no doubt. And if he's mad enough to be stubborn and refuse…I'll make him."

His hands rise to his heart, where they tighten into adamant fists. It's quite a sight, to behold such raw determination. Thanatos can only wonder at it, at the fire in those eyes, too bright and glassy and drugged with hope, with resolve. Zagreus embodies the spirit of resolve, unbendable, unable to be sequestered or squashed or subdued. Like all things mortal, endlessly wresting for a shot at life. Like Life itself, which relies on that spirit. It is the very condition of existence.

Such as it is.

"It could work," Thanatos concedes slowly, thoughtfully. Zagreus lights right up like he's just won a war—which, he supposes, is not altogether untrue. A battle, at the least. But while that acquiescence is not outright a lie, Death neglects to disclose the extent of his cynicism. For all he knows, this scheme really could work. Overcoming the impossible seems to be something of a specialty of the Prince's.

"Than," Zagreus exclaims, breathy and half-hushed, as if he can't quite believe his assent. The Prince's nose and cheeks, so stark white before, again flood ruddy with color. "Do you really think so? Because—" but in such an eager manner of exclaiming, the rest of the words somehow lodge themselves there, coated in a sweet-slick lacquer that originates in a dark secret space between Zagreus' lips, just peeking out at the parted junction.

Thanatos suppresses an odd thought—that this viscous shimmer might slip right out of that mouth and into his, if he were to seal his own lips there, right at that intricate space. Stealing it, every trapped word. Like Zagreus had done to him, once before, in Asphodel's fiery plains.

(Was that it? Could all of this madness be traced to that very moment? Had Zagreus well and truly stolen from him all snippets of sense in that sweltering instant, along with his anger, his words, his breath...?)

He doesn't mean to direct his gaze to those lips, that source; but Zagreus, who is not totally imperceptive, deigns to notice. His eyes swivel from Tartarus' cold floor to Thanatos' pupils, and hold there. They are narrow, and so dark, even the red; almost shuttered, lashes throwing long bars on his cheeks.

Unable to bear it, Thanatos quickly shifts focus to their surroundings, stained ghoulish green and vermillion; from the corner of his eye, he can see the haunted waters of the Styx, the soul lights of the torches that flicker like blinking eyes in the stone.

"So," he coughs quickly, finally settling on some unspecified point between wall and water. "You're intending on going through with this, then? Is there anything I can do to be of help?"

That long, tense moment broken, Zagreus straightens, as if pulled by an invisible cord. His head jerks once, so swiftly that it might have been imagined; and Thanatos allows his eyes to slide back to him. "You've been mightily helpful as it is. I appreciate your support out here, always. It's been nice, being able to confide in you, of late. If you believe in me, then…that's enough, I think. And if there need be more, well…I know how to reach you." He smiles, soft, secret, like the finger now pressing to Mort's exposed ear, the curve of his little cheek. Doubtlessly grinning, as if to say he has been a witness to everything.

"All right," Thanatos nods, already holding out his hand, rotating his shoulder. "I'll be going, then."

"Ah, wait!" Zagreus exclaims, breathless. A sudden, fierce hold grips the fine bones of Thanatos' wrist, firm enough to blanch dusk to white. When he looks down, that secret space between the Prince's lips is there again, and that esoteric shimmer with it. A shimmer that rivals the stars in his eyes. "By the way, I—I've got something I've been meaning to tell you. Something important. I can, back at the House." He ducks his head, sheepish. "Meet me there, later on?"

(And, well. How could Death dissent, whilst beholding such a face?)


When the time comes for their rendezvous, the House feels unusually charged: the atmosphere thick, distillate and slow-moving. Saturated with anticipation, though not a single word has yet been uttered.

Zagreus did manage to make it to the Surface, on this most recent attempt. Shade intel, that ever-reliable resource, has relayed to Thanatos this much. What the outcome after was, he cannot say—though there is that obvious absence of Queen. He's rather keen to inquire, though to do so here would be an undertaking of risk.

All whims of rebellion are scattered from his mind when makes his way to the Prince, already rooted in his favored far corner; moreover, already offering up a bottle—another—and rattling off some words about not taking no for an answer in lieu of greeting Death properly. As Zagreus prattles on nonsense statements, a deep-purpled tint spreads over his face—not unlike the kind that good wine might bestow. The symphonic sea of white noise in his mind is such that Thanatos can hardly hear him; it hisses and whines, building until he finally interrupts.

"Tsh, and what is this?" Death scoffs, and Zagreus' speech dies in an instant, taken up by that invisible viscosity, that space upon which he dares not fixate again. "Come on, Zagreus, are you just messing with me, now? How did you even manage to get more of this, much less decide to hand it off to me?"

Zagreus smiles wanly, and continues. "In order: no, I'm not; by ransacking my father's realm repeatedly, to which you are privy; and it's because I like you, Thanatos. In case you still have some misgivings about that."

For a screeching instant, every unjoined particle distills, and every breath and shadow hangs on that monosyllabic utterance of "like"; all the ichor in Death's veins ceases to circulate, going from lukewarm to dead cold; and Zagreus is staring openly with those divergent eyes, red-green, stop-go, and Thanatos rather feels like something is stuck him full in the throat, something hard and fast and with deadly aim. The air wrings itself out of him.

"You… like me…?" he coughs, and takes a step back, awash with panic, but Zagreus just follows him with his eyes: falling, falling, falling into Thanatos' space. "I—hn?—don't know...why…" woefully thwarted, he swallows thickly and begins again. "I did not...expect this from you, given. Given everything that's happened. As of late."

"Well, I do," Zagreus repeats, coarse. His voice has taken a dry, brittle texture. Like crackling leaves, or parchment catching fire. "I finally have an answer for you, Than. I think I had it longer, but…I needed to really be sure."

This statement finally breaks the siren's hold, and casts those disparately burning eyes down. For a breathless instant, all is silent, save for the juggling molecules.

"Look, if you don't feel the same way about me at this point, I would rather know. Cease these coy gift exchanges, and all that."

Thanatos blinks, still reeling. The feeling spawning inside him is nameless and formless, but there's no ignoring it or bottling it or quelling it, and he doesn't necessarily want to, either; but it is overpowering. He wants to uncork that power. Imbibe it. Drain the dregs. Were he cogent enough to pay closer attention, he might see that Zagreus is reeling, too, behind that careful construct of calm. But as it stands, Death is too indisposed with focusing his intent on the innocuous vial that sits in Zagreus' hand, red as Life's blood, and waging a furious bargain with himself.

He once had said: you have only to ask.

"Do you think…that showering me with lavish treasures will win my affection?" The answer frightens him.

Zagreus chuckles low, more grunt than laughter, as if to make light of some dark, private truth. "I don't know that it will. I never really know exactly where I stand with you. But I know how I feel, and I'd rather be up front with you, even if it means risking our relationship. Such as it is."

"Our relationship…?"

(In the inextricable tangle of everything that astounds about this new revelation, Death finds himself captivated by Zagreus' confidence, the surety with which he conveys these feelings. But really, what's astounding there? Is this not Zagreus at his pinnacle, his purest, most perpetual condition, to speak with such conviction? To foist this conviction upon others, regardless of their state of readiness? It is; and this incomprehensibly stings. For Thanatos may have suppressed his grudges—let them rot away like the flesh of an overripe pom—but the festering wounds they left ache in him, still.)

"It wasn't long ago you were prepared to throw it all away while making for the surface, if you don't recall," he utters, unable to strain out the lingering threads of resentment. "But now you're saying that you…care for me? And...what exactly, Zagreus?"

In front of his face, inexplicably closer, Zagreus' lashes flutter. The movement, delicate and rapid, reminds Thanatos oddly of a butterfly trapped in a jar. He can almost hear the sound of the winged insect flitting itself against the glass of its prison, tiny thumps—but no, that's just the sound of his heart slamming against the cage of his ribs, louder than a tympanon's pulse.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying, Than. I should not have left the way I did, without letting you know. But when you found me, I think that's when…that's when I knew, or started to realize. You know?"

Thanatos draws his lips tight, tighter than the goatskin face of that pounding drum, watching Zagreus' fingers twitching slowly like little sticks—lacing and unlacing over his heart. His face is cordial-red now, invoking Earth's jewel bounties—color as rich and undiluted as the ambrosia he offers.

Arrested by such a cherubic display, Death knows not how to respond. Nor how in all the worlds they might proceed from here.

How...do they proceed from here?

Is progress—

"Zag…what do we do now?"

"Maybe we can take our time," Zagreus offers quickly, and ah, yes—this is familiar ground. This, he can do. "Unlike the real thing there, that's a commodity we have in good supply, eh?" The Prince gives a weak smile, unstable, that grows before Thanatos' eyes into something more fixed and sure as he nods along. "All-right. Good. That's a plan, then. Just know that…if you feel the way I do…you know where to find me. And if not…I'm grateful anyway."

Time. Yes. He needs time. Time to deliberate, to process this unanticipated development. But time runs through Death's fingers like darkness itself. Time is the greatest of illusions, in this place, and sanctioned matters of business are eternally calling for his. But Zagreus knows this already. And Zagreus is smiling, gentle and inviting, and somehow that's all it takes to assuage Death, for now. Time. Gratitude. A promise of patience. Language fails him, but it doesn't much matter; no amount of words from him could compare to a single sincere smile tumbling from the Prince's lips, sifting aside the debris of bated apprehension to reveal the vulnerable pulse underneath.

"I see," Thanatos manages; and though he's not quite sure he does, he is sure that he wants to. His voice scrapes upon the palate, bone-dry. Zagreus studies him silently, intently, long after that smile dissolves from his face. His face that is now so impervious. It remains as such even as Thanatos reaches out a tentative arm, finally grasps the proffered contraband between his fingers, and stows it.

"Well then." Thanatos speaks with care. A new sprout, one that approximates anxious fear but not quite, flares in that aching pit of his chest. "The best I can say for now is that I'm grateful, too, for this. Take care of yourself, Zag."

With a swish as though wrought from the swing of a blade, he is gone, and Zagreus is left staring at nothing.


Thanatos has frequently felt, throughout his long, long existence, as though he's the only one who truly knows Zagreus. What composes him. Passion, surely, though often misapplied. Speed, or more specifically, motion, kinetics, waveforms. Impatience. Impertinence. Brashness. Selfish imposition. In trying to make sense of all of it, this brings comfort. This imposition, too, Thanatos supposes, is selfish—though for once, not brash. Zagreus has without question taken his time, mulled his thoughts and feelings, exercised restraint. And restraint has never been a strength of the Prince's.

(He wonders whether it had been easy, like breathing, or difficult, like a mortal holding down his breath. Constraining, containing, struggling with the effort not to let it free. Every passing second one that must be fervently counted, until breath can flow, and life can continue.)

It occurs to Thanatos, thinking in this way, that he has all this time been standing at a crossroads. That he has been frozen in a state of inertia like such a trapped breath, converting all of his inner torment to external effort; a force transferred from soul to soul, ferried from Underworld to Surface and back. A servant to routine, always relying on happenstance to set him back into motion. Relying on mortals to die just to provoke him into action. Rarely acting of his own agency, even as that bated breath strains and strains, like the butterfly in its jar. Would he act, if not for duty? If not for the inevitability of death?

(Death never acts upon that which he does not know. This is not his nature.)

But does not Death know Life? He does. Death was present when life began. Many eons, many worlds, many star systems ago. And when Life was born, Death had been present too. Had suffered as that new Life grappled with existence. Had celebrated when Life emerged victorious.

(And so...?)

And so now he is left to trace the pathology of this development. A development that requires from him a decision. A decision Thanatos has never dared dream he might one day (or night) have to make.

(Time. The Cycle. Free choice.)

Free choice.

(Has not Death been acting upon his own will, this whole time?)

The sense of disquiet in him undulates and grows, clawing his skull in an effort to escape, rattling the empty space left behind by shame. And where had that gone? When had shame and guilt, those twin companions, perched upon his shoulders and smothering his senses from the very day or night he was born, disintegrated into...what, exactly? Foolish, reckless abandon? Pure lunacy? A complete and utter lack of control, all in the name of reclamation of it?

Thanatos touches his temple and makes an earnest attempt at steeling himself that these nebulous thoughts swirling about his consciousness are mired in absolute truth. That there is time. That the Cycle will continue. That Death can keep chasing Life. That Zagreus' plan will come to pass. That Zagreus' words, his feelings are true.

(And if they are…?)

He's almost more paralyzed by this outcome, by the profundity of this choice, than by any challenge that his station has ever presented. It's too much to take in, too much to ponder. The blade-sharp rationality on which he's always relied deserts him. He can't put a name to the constriction inside him, to the way that this choice makes him feel.

(More time.)

His ever-flickering thoughts spill over and settle, tenuously, to Zagreus' radiant smile, his fire-bright eyes. The shifting topography of his battle-stained skin. How he had finally let Death into his inner world, shared with him stories and aspirations and hopes. The earnestness with which he had spoken. Each notion a tether that grounds him back unto himself. Evidence gathered. Evidence toward the infallible, irrefutable truth of Time. Time, which is inescapable. Time, absolute. When there is nothing else, Time will continue to be. There will be time. There is time. There must be. And if this is upheld as truth, then perhaps the rest might be, too. Perhaps Thanatos can dare to believe in those truths, let them spread their roots in him and bear fruit. Perhaps this fruit, this time, will not rot. Perhaps this time, he can harvest from this a real, concrete belief in his own power to choose. Possibly even such a belief in himself.

But, failing that…there is always the Cycle, and the ever-vagrant fancies of Fate.


Lord Hades towers imposingly at the fore of the administration chamber when Thanatos hands in his latest report, on time and alert. Nonetheless, the Master disdainfully huffs: "I remain concerned by your change in affect," affording no further elaboration. But though the volume has been tempered and the rhetoric made ambiguous, there is no belying the underlying meaning. What that cold and callous tone of voice clearly relates is: I know what you have been up to, and under no uncertain terms, you had better clean up your act, or there will be consequences.

Chitters and chirps percolate through the crowd of spectating shades. Thanatos braces, and takes a long, shuddered breath—beleaguered not, for he has long since accepted that this would come to pass. That he would be forced between this choice of duty and desire, just as Lord Hades had forewarned prior, and likely the Fates well before him.

In the end, Zagreus is the only choice; and not even the inevitable threat of treason is enough to incite him to change his own mind. If all of this was preordained, then so be it.